Fire, earthquake, flood,things lose their meaning.Soggy or turned to ash,form no longer holds.Yes, I can see myself wizenedand leak proof, afloat,memories chittering around melike so many children.

There are burdens I would not go without.

This post has haunted me for months since my most recent visit to Ojai in June. I originally envisioned it as a return to the impact of the Thomas Fire, a “story” that has receded for most of us since its devastation last December. Our attention has more recently been claimed by another fire-news cycle—this time the Carr Fire in Northern California, burning for more than a month and destroying nearly 230,000 acres before containment in August.

Something that I heard in Ojai, from Peter Strauss, actor and citrus farmer, released a cascade of long-held assumptions and redirected this post toward exploring the yin and yang of environmental sustainability and and our need for a reliable food source.

The wind changed direction from east to west, from the orchards toward the town. Fire fighters believe that the massive fields that had been irrigated saved the town.

Peter Strauss, actor and citrus farmer/gardener

View through the window at Ojai's Peppertree Retreat.

Beautiful Ojai, a balm that opens my heart whenever I approach from Highway 150, is a community that also poses serious questions about the future of our state's identity as the country’s most valuable farming resource. Any discussion of agriculture begins and ends with water. Scale, heritage, and the wobbly definitions of “organic” add to an already loaded subject. In a wide-ranging conversation, Peter gently—and sometimes forcefully—confronted me with the unexplored implications of what I had considered thoughtful, sustainable consumption.

Meaning

How we eat determines, to a considerable extent, how the world is used.

Wendell Berry

Citrus farm in Ojai, June of 2018

Describing himself as an advocate for growing “healthy, tasty, nutritious food,” Peter turned quickly to the potentially devastating impact of growing produce without some form of defense against an increasing range of threats. As a farmer, he said, “I am aware of the fungus, insect, and weed world. Every year, there are new insects in our world. There is a new ‘Bug 273,’ and we rely on UC Davis to tell us how to rid ourselves of this bug. At the moment, our defenses are chemical. In Florida, farmers are faced with the insect borne Greening disease, now decimating the citrus crop. And think of the amazing number of gophers that are no longer kept in check by hawks or coyotes.”

Our conversation suggests that the term “organic” has become an exercise in opportunistic semantics. According to Peter, there are 17 derivations of the word. Other words, natural, farm-fresh, local add to a sense of healthfulness—that has little to do with actual quality. Organic certification, a costly and for many farmers, impossible standard, is monitored by a relatively small number of inspectors as few as 80, Peter told me, for the entire country.

I felt obliged to reexamine my own notions of “pure” food, of one apple exceeding another in flavor, delight, and health because of the ubiquitous sticker that identifies it as “organic.”

How do we reconcile the vast abundance of farming communities such as Ojai, the cost differential inherent in organic produce with urban communities whose access to nutrition is described as food deserts?

Desire

Our land use is based on how we eat and how we eat is based on unreasonable behavior.

Peter Strauss

Evolving consumer tastes toward ease of use have changed the way we farm. The Pixie tangerine, a relative newcomer to Ojai, is popular not only for its taste, but because it is easy to peel and a convenient size. Valencia oranges, representing a majority of Ojai’s historic crops, are made for juicing—and surely nothing tastes better than a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice! Yet purchasing a generous bag of oranges, no matter how inexpensive, has been largely supplanted by more efficient forms of consumption. The underwhelming taste of bottled orange juice, requiring pasteurization to extend shelf life, can deflect the uninitiated fresh juice drinker. And on Ojai’s Gifferson Road, which runs parallel to Highway 126 between Santa Clarita and Santa Paula, the citrus trees are covered with white gauze to prevent bee pollination, which produces the flowers that in turn create seeds. The desire for seedless fruit as a convenience means fewer bees, the world’s most important pollinator of food crops.

Small and Nearly Perfect

In Ojai, as in many other agricultural communities, alternative farming methods are developing. Permaculture designed to channel and reuse irrigation water is an example. Such measures are almost always quite small in scale, and therefore do not affect a large market of consumers. The small size of these farms means flexibility, with a focus on developing sustainable practices and educating consumers over production quotas.

Eclectic farm stands along Thatcher Road in Ojai. Payment is on the honor system.

How does the innovation of the small and the individual support whole system change?

“Some efficiencies should be conducted within whole systems; for example, lined channels to conduct water. There are a lot of unlined channels in California’s farmland functioning like streams, but the ground all around them is saturated. These irrigation “streams” do not provide habitat; rather habitat is stripped. Nor do they direct water to crops or help to replenish our ground water. A single farmer concerned with sustainable practice can make adjustments. But for meaningful impact, these practices need to be scaled up and in a collaborative way on all fronts.” Kitty Connolly, executive director of the Theodore Payne Foundation.

Kitty Connolly at the Theodore Payne Foundation office.

The Golden Mean

Ventura County’s water comes from one source, Lake Casitas, dependent entirely on rainfall to “re-charge.” After years of severe drought, Lake Casitas hovers between 32 and 34% of its capacity. As its future is uncertain, Ventura County is looking at alternative water sources including accessing the California Aqueduct, a long-term project requiring significant political will and financing. Its timeline may exceed the lifespan of its Lake.

What do you say in terms about a state that has this connection to agriculture, a community that is built upon the legacy of family farms?” Question posed to Kitty Connelly.

First of all, I have to say is that I eat food; I do it every day. So, I can’t vilify food production entirely, because I eat food that is grown in California. I even grow my own food. I think there is no way to be pure on this issue. There is no way to be pure on basically any issue.

Kitty Connolly

There is a tremendous joy in growing fruit. No farmer I know is making money. They are breaking even at best.

Peter Strauss

A single almond requires a gallon of water to produce; this reliance is evident in the acres and acres of fallow fields and dying trees in California’s drought-stricken Central Valley. Persimmons, pomegranates, and cactus are now emerging as sustainable crops, supplanting the unrealistic water requirements of more traditional farm produce. Fortunately, consumer tastes appear to be bending to availability. Peter farms eight acres of navel and twenty-two of Valencia oranges. He has switched out eight acres of citrus for cactus and is now experimenting with juices and tequila. He waters at night to prevent evaporation; uses drip irrigation to encourage longer, deeper, more drought-tolerant root structures; and even uses a bucket in the shower. “That’s one rose’s need per shower!”

An example of challenge creating abundance and innovation. Some of Bolivia’s 4,000 native potato varieties cultivated for their ability to withstand extreme elevation (over 12,000 feet) and cold. They are a revelation in taste and are nutritious too.

A dish from Restaurant Gustu in La Paz, Bolivia—builds its tasting menus on Bolivian native food products including potatoes.

Between 1975 and 2005, Los Angeles County’s water usage has not increased despite a growth in population of more than a million people. An investment in water conservation began in the mid 90's with a suit brought against the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power District to restore and protect Mono Lake by a coalition of local, state, and national organizations. The Aqueduct's design diverted all water from the Mono Lake Basin. The strategy has moved from confrontation to monitoring, education, and access, including the distribution of more than 40,000 low-flow toilets. The Rush and Lee Vining Creeks are now flowing again into the Lake, reviving and restoring its ecology.

The original goal of the Theodore Payne Foundation was to encourage Los Angeles County residents to return to native plants as a way of supporting natural habitats and reducing pests. Drought has shifted its conversation to both incremental and larger scale changes that can affect water conservation practice and policy.

I am left searching for balance, avoiding what Confucius and Aristotle described as extremism. In its place, is “the golden mean,” or the middle way. There are no simple answers to the question of need, desire, and reality. Practices that have seemed reasonable turn out to have unintended consequences. There is a case to be made for the small and the incremental; its impact is built by individuals working in common for long-term change. There is likewise a case to be made for beginning with confrontation when there is no time for evolution. There is sadness in the prospect of losing California’s traditional farm heritage and excitement in the possibility of evolving both acreage and consumer taste toward water-wise crops. There is a case to be made for sustainable farm practices that avoid the overuse of pesticides but do not rule out their judicious use. Quality and sufficient food for all, no matter what a person’s income, should be a right.

To conclude this overly long post, I suggest a number of activities along with a recipe for Nopal Salad courtesy of Mario Rodriguez, friend and consummate cook.

Visit Theodore Payne Foundation. Wander among the plants, close your eyes, sniff the beautiful fragrance, and notice the butterflies, bees, and the absence of pests.

Summertime used to be slo-mo time. School was out; some lucky folk experienced a real vacation time. But now, I find myself working around the temperature rather than the clock; vacations are staggered; school schedules are no longer three months based on the “agrarian calendar.” Walking begins in the early dawn, racing against the waves of heat that begin well before noon. I squeeze in productive activity as all bets are off in the late afternoon. At some point, usually well after the sun goes down, I re-awaken to catch the cool. Has summertime lost its unspooling quality? When was the last time you sat outside for a good part of the day, feeling warm rather than blast-furnace air? Did you, like me, sit under a generously spreading tree, reading a book until overtaken by sleep?

Spun silk of mercy,

long-limbed afternoon,

sun urging purple blossoms from baked stems.

What better blessing than to move without hurry

under trees?

Naomi Shihab Nye

Since my last post honoring Mother’s Day well back in May, my summer ritual all but disappeared, overtaken by a publishing deadline for The Urban Forager: Culinary Exploring & Cooking on L.A.'s Eastside.Writing a cookbook, with its exacting requirements, is not for the faint of heart. Its gestation is longer than the carrying time for a baby elephant, and the finished product evinces none of the intensity of the process. As a bridge between pre-cookbook Urban Forager and post-cookbook Urban Forager, I cannot help but share some of its in-process content, as the back story to creation so often includes unseen commitment and labor.

The most inspiring part of this work was searching for and connecting with some of the eastside’s great cooks. Of the five profiled—Sumi Chang, Minh Phan, Rumi Mahmood, Mario Rodriguez, and Jack Aghoian—three are home cooks whose journey towards expertise is both inspiring and feasible. All have been extraordinarily welcoming and supportive; their generosity contributing as well to an unexpected side effect of this project: a fifteen-pound weight gain.

Their stories are enriched by family members, mentors, and in the case of Rumi and Minh, links between their home countries' food cultures with their adopted country’s possibilities. Of the five, I knew only Sumi and Mario personally. The other three received an email from me out of the blue, asking them to participate in a cookbook that until recently was without a publisher. Each gave me liberal amounts of their personal time, so necessary for a cookbook that depends upon understanding of origin and authentic cooking style. I treasured sitting down with each of these cooks, interviewing them, hearing about their early experiences with food, and then working with a gifted young illustrator, Simone Rein, on visualizing these influences through the metaphor of a personalized table overflowing with delights.

Onil Chibas, left, inspirational chef and friend, who suggested Rumi as a cook to be profiled in The Urban Forager.

I stood side by side with each of these cooks, watching them work, tracking each step as they made one beautiful dish after another. In all cases, photographer Ann Cutting and I ate what was made, meaning we were treated to pozole, lemon bars, saag, shrimp dopiaza, jahl ghost curry, vegan rice porridge, guacamole, cabbage rolls, yogurt, negi oil, nut cookies, salsa, and frittata. In some cases, the recipes were reverse engineered at every step for dishes that had never been recorded. In others, a recipe was more than ingredients and steps, but a way into understanding the qualities of a great cook.

In documenting Rumi's recipes, we managed to combine our work with a four-course, elegantly presented meal. Between each course, Ann and I ran outside where the light was better to capture a newly plated dish.

Simone's first sketch of Rumi's Table of Influences and the final drawing. Each table went through a number of revisions as the cooks considered how their food history made visual sense.

The words of each cook reveal a conviction that cooking is a form of energizing, creative delight rather than a chore.

One thing I decided is that people who love to cook do so because they are all aesthetic.

Rumi

The markets in New Mexico were so physically beautiful. They had these corn kernels that were almost blue. They have this sensual quality of food that you either get or you don’t. My jaw kept falling!

Sumi

Bags of chile powder at the Sucre Central Market in Bolivia.

The reason I am a cook is that my greatest creativity came out when I made something from whatever I could find in the refrigerator. This began in my childhood and continues today.

Minh

Cooking is like breathing. I pride myself on making something from nothing and don’t use a recipe.

Jack

Minh foraging for ingredients at the late, great Muir Ranch. Photo by Ann Cutting.

I have a starter for bread. I tell my daughter Paloma it is her big sister because when Monica was pregnant, I decided to start my first starter dough with my own wild yeast trap and it’s fine. It's almost nine years old.

Mario

Writing the cookbook has felt seamless: a natural expression of my belief in community's variations on the common table. Watch for more stories as the journey to its publication continues. And in the meantime, may you find a quiet moment within our overheated days and enjoy a cooling dish of Rumi's Saag, More to come!

As a daughter and stepdaughter, mother and stepmother, and grandmother, I return today to Anna’s original non-commercialized intent. I was interested in culling from my neighbors and friends, a sense of their family food history through childhood recipes. This “simple” subject multiplied into many—homemaking, siblings, family celebrations, and in some cases deep struggle. The fulcrum of all stories was the mother. Mine is too, as I navigated two intensely meaningful relationships, each quite different; and in my mother’s case challenging enough to compel an acceptance of inconsistency and evolution. My mother has never been my true north; this was my stepmother Margie's role—one she took up joyfully. But my mother’s own fragility has led me to an awareness that we all have lives that began and will extend well beyond our time as mothers and that nurturing can be found in many places.

My mother and me at the beach, our favorite outing. Margie and me at work together.

“Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing.”

Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

Being compelled to look within and without for nurturing, meant a habit of extending myself more widely and more hopefully into the world—be it neighborhood, the common history of friendship, or the glancing intimacies of community.

Drive-by Affirmation

A bit west of us, someone writes single sentence affirmations on a large chalkboard. I now look for this sign as I drive along Woodbury Road. Most memorable was, “You are seen;” so similar to the Zulu greeting, Sawubona,meaning, “I see you” and by extension, “I see your humanity. I see your dignity.”

Is it possible that an entire culture can embrace what we understand as the deepest form of nurturing—of being seen and therefore understood?

I See You: a collection of mother/daughter portraits of friends and neighbors. Each mother gazes directly at her daughter.

I see you: Jo LaVonne Ewing and her mother Nell Brown Smith Chism, top left

I see you: Trish Pengra and her mother Rose Majewski Farrow, top right

I see you: Hope Tschopik Schneider and her mother Marion Hutchinson Tschopik, bottom right

I see you: Doris Hausmann and her mother Hilda Hausmann, bottom left

Neighborhood Comfort

Trish lives across the street in a craftsman house that extends its greeting through a wide porch and at times, the sound of her playing the piano. After a harried day of moving into our home over a year ago, she arrived on our doorstep with a lasagna and cookies in hand. The next day, without my usual hesitation, I asked to use her dryer, soon carrying a basket of wet clothes across the street. Somehow, I knew I could ask for help.

Our kitchen window overlooking Jo's house.

Our next-door neighbor Jo’s kitchen window and back deck align with ours allowing the pleasure of casual connection. Although she must have endured more than her share of house construction noise and filth, she never complained. Well before our move in date—impatient to feel a sense of belonging—I placed a teapot on the counter by the window. She came by to let me know how happy she was to see this sign of life—as it meant the house was becoming a home.

The Connection of Common History

Barbara and I were two social orphans brought together through the intercession of Miss Rosen, our eighth-grade Home Room teacher at Bancroft Junior High School. I wonder if this teacher has any idea about how she changed the course of our lives. We now tell the story as family lore about our first conversation—ending with the discovery that we both loved to make art. This toe-hold of interest led to the building of a common history; almost family and more than family; Barbara is my dearest friend.

Peggy, an acquaintance within Pasadena's busy community of non-profits became something much more so after a walk taken together through our neighborhood. We found uncommon parallels in our personal histories, leaving us both stunned and connected. We speak and feel in a shorthand that comes through the familiarity of our common history—mothers who struggled with depression, fathers absent at times due to work in the foreign service, stepmothers named Margie.

From Rose's Homemaking Notebook, a collection of recipes, practical hints, and ephemera.

Marriages are Made in Kitchens, from the This n' That section of Rose's Homemaking Notebook. Trish's mother and father came from disconnected and at times neglectful families. Her father described his greatest accomplishment as creating "a happy family" of eight with his wife Rose.

From Jo's mother Nell's recipe for Apple Pie. Jo's family is from Kentucky, land of excellent sweets. (Pickle relish is a common savory ingredient.)

The Security of the Familiar

This week, I include family recipes from my friends and neighbors in their original form—a scrap of paper, the ubiquitous index card, and three ring notebook paper. Our mothers’ recipes assume knowledge that comes from learning side-by-side with them. The directions are brief and only make sense if knowing family context, history, and flavors. They are loved for more reasons than just taste.

“My mother and her youngest sister would get together to bake around Christmas time. They watched the sales for butter and sugar and confered about how many batches to make. They made ten types of cookies and shared them out. When my aunt went back to work, my mom and I continued to bake together. I would take a day off of work, as we baked all day. When I bake now, I do so, to remember those days with my mom.”

Trish Pengra

“One thing that we have for Thanksgiving or Christmas or sometimes both is my mom’s apple pie—a kind of Dutch apple with butter, brown sugar and flour that is crumbled over the top. My son makes it now and my nephew loves to cook”

Happy Mother's Day!

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

This year, the confluence of Easter and Passover meant that many of us were gathered with family and friends, eating meals inspired both by metaphor and tradition. As someone who loves to cook, I re-entered my family’s heritage by beginning something we call “The Cousins Passover.” This tradition began over twenty-five years ago, and for the most part, my extended family and friends have met around a growing table every year. In the off years, like this one, I feel a sense of loss. For some reason, I kept track of the Seder dinner—what we served and who came—perhaps at first to critique the meal and as a way to improve upon it for the next year. These notes to myself changed over the years. They now tend to speak more about how it felt to be together and less about the food. The span of time chronicles our children’s maturation into adulthood and the aging and death of older generations.

Passover notes to myself.

Passover, Easter, and Ramadan are markers of early and late spring, physical and spiritual renewal, and connection. The Passover Seder is a particularly apt ritual for holding ideas in physical form. The food eaten is a vivid teacher as the contrast of salty and sweet, rich and bitter lead us through a series of emotions tied to one story of exodus. From a single family’s gathering around the symbols of exodus, the connection to other stories is seamless--an entry into larger communities and universal ideas.

The Conflict Kitchen, located in in Pittsburgh, was both restaurant and community organizing platform that served cuisine from countries “with which the United States is in conflict.” Its organizers understood how a common table’s comfort and intimacy could ease entry into discussions about countries, cultures, and people that are little known outside of polarizing rhetoric. Its restaurant served the cuisine of Iran, Afghanistan, Venezuela, North Korea, Haudenosaunee or the Iroquois Confederacy, and Palestine.

Food is wrapped in colorful paper with the story of the maker, the culture, and the country.

Although the restaurant closed, the Conflict Kitchen plans to expand its educational work throughout the greater Pittsburgh region with the production of curriculum, performances, public events and publications in partnership with cultural institutions, community organizations, and schools.

This Land spans a 150-year period of stories emerging from four families. They all lived on a particular plot of Southern California land first known by the Native Americans who lived there--the Tongva, then Rancho La Tajauta, a Mexican land grant, and now Watts. The play shifts continuously between different time periods (the 1840’s, the 1940’s, the 1960’s, and the 1990’s) and in doing so, vividly describes the displacement, overlap, and intersection of these families through a montage of languages, characters, experience, and food.

“Stories can be epic and personal at the same time. This Land is the story of humanity. When we have these big conversations, we are not aware of historical context, but it informs how we relate to one other.

I have a close relationship with a family who I based some of the characters on. The food they eat was my introduction to Louisiana soul food. Louisiana had been under the Spanish crown and it went back and forth between the Spanish and French. Another connection between African-Americans and immigrant Latino cultures is that, as a result of oppression, they have experienced a great deal of poverty. So,they made do with what was thrown away by the rich--organ meat. We, Latinos eat chicharrones; African-Americans eat chitlins. I was sorting out the characters and food became a theme. What would we have in common with slight variations? At the end of the play, these cultures broke bread having a chitlin taco, Louisiana pot roast with prickly pear. Food captures culture.”

Evangeline Ordaz

In spring, there can be a sense of hopefulness; a sense of renewal after winter, after conflict. I leave you with recipesofthe season and a a poem that captures where these ideas have left me, for this day, for this time.

When I was a young dancer, many, many years ago, I learned the well-known aphorism, “Don’t let them see you sweat.” In the ballet world, this is largely true. It is why I never sit too close to the stage. I, like many in the audience, want to allow myself a momentary suspension of disbelief: to imagine that this beauty emerges from magic, not grindingly, physical, relentless work.

As I dip my toe further into the world of food, cooks, chefs and purveyors, I am becoming more and more aware of the effort, care and experience behind the exquisite plate of deliciousness that I often devour in minutes. A growing media industry profiles the story of exceptional chefs, many of whom flame out in a few years. The gap between what is envisioned and what is possible is often too great to imagine or accept.

The back story is the front story in this week’s post. In this case, I discovered individuals who are able to balance the wobbly line between what is and what could be—lessons for us all.

A hike in Ojai

Early this year, shortly after the extraordinarily destructive Thomas Fire, Julia, a friend from Germany, and I travelled to Ojai. We were not there to gawk, as this was to be a restful few days planned well before the fires. We soldiered on, driving the back route that has always been my favored way into Ojai. In times past, this is a route to decompression, beginning in Santa Clarita, where highway 126 leads through California farm country and quiets even further at Santa Paula, where the 150 cuts off. But this year, the 150 was a moonscape: acres and acres of blackened trees, a wall or foundation, sometimes the only evidence of a home. The downtown area of Ojai was untouched. Other than the residual smell of smoke and the many banners expressing gratitude to the first responders, this epic story could be forgotten at least momentarily.

The Shelf Road Trail was open and despite the burn, offered the expansive, heart opening views that are Ojai. A small group of engineers and soils scientists from nearby Ventura were gathered at the trail’s mouth, assessing the damage and the potential danger of future rain storms. Julia and I had been looking out at the horizon and up at the sky, but not at our feet, where hopeful shoots of green were sprouting here and there through the bare earth. Dawn, one of the soil scientists, pointed out the various mini-slides and described the back story she carried as part of her deep knowledge. “Even though you think you see green stuff, there is a slide here a slide there. Our normal flow is loosened; our vegetation will never be the same again. It is a high risk for mud slides for seven years.” Our hike ended after a short mile, when the damage became increasingly noticeable.

This experience, while sobering, leaves me with a sense of gratitude to the people who choose to be extraordinarily aware and willing to see and act on what is hard to acknowledge. Dawn left us with an acceptable truth: “Stay on the trail please. We need these bits of green to grow and flourish.”

Mise en Place

This past week, I had the honor of watching one of our gifted East Side chefs Minh Phan prepare one of her signature dishes, porridge. I witnessed something far more layered and physically beautiful than any pre-conceived idea of this “homely dish.” The day began at Muir Ranch, a three-acre school garden located behind Muir High School in Pasadena. Minh wandered the rows of mustard greens, amaranth, fennel and chard, picking a few leaves or fronds of each. Her greatest find was the variegated leaves of geranium. Other than fennel, most of these “ingredients” seemed more at home in a vase than on the stove. I was wrong.

The next phase was Minh’s preparation of her mise en place. A quiet hour went by as she organized a food based still life that would challenge any Dutch Renaissance home maker. Along with her prepped ingredients, rose geranium pickled baby onions, Makrut lime compound butter and what she describes as Asian mirepoix—ginger, shallots and lemon grass—she placed at the ready edible flowers, vegetables and herbs, kumquats and habanero chilies, both as inspiration and reminder.

Within the next hour or so, rice porridge was cooking slowly. Minh sources every ingredient with an eye to quality, saying, “People understand that a steak is worth $15, but to most a bowl of porridge –that’s hard.” But this food’s value is based on a commitment and ability to coax elusive and subtle flavors from personally foraged ingredients and carefully constructed mini-dishes. Minh describes her relationship to the food community--purveyors, makers and customers--as symbiotic: taking and giving back. She recently donated her time and food to a fundraiser for Muir Ranch. She frequents the Hollywood Market, as so many of her food suppliers from ranches and farms around Central and Southern California sell there regularly, including the source for so much of her inspiration, Koda Rice Farms.

For those of us lucky enough to partake, Minh’s dishes are a form of exquisite alchemy--amaranth, so prevalent that it is considered by some a weed, becomes a delightfully light tempura and nettles, fennel and cilantro are blended with coconut milk for an earthy yet light green sauce.

The Archeology of Mole

Benjamino Cano of Moles La Tia in East Los Angeles, mole maker for over 40 years and his El Pistachio mole. He cannot choose a favorite mole, saying they are like children, each different, but equally loved. Photos by Sally Krueger-Wyman.

And last, but certainly not least, is one of my most beloved food experiences and the inspiration for this post. Eating mole, a deceptively simple looking sauce originating in Pueblo and perfected in Oaxaca, is my idea of a beautiful journey filled with exciting discoveries. A typical mole is made up of more than 30 ingredients that somehow manage to remain distinctive and at the same time cohesive.

As I become more convinced that we live in one of the major food capitals in the world, I returned to Moles La Tia in East Los Angeles to deconstruct this dish with the help of chef Benjamino Cano and the restaurant’s long time manager, Alfonso Hererra.

Benjamino’s moles begin the night before. He toasts and soaks various chilies before grinding them along with seeds and nuts. There is broth, tortilla or bread, spices including cumin, and sometimes cinnamon infused chocolate for Mole Negro, considered the pinnacle of moles by many aficionados. I am a Pipianes type of gal, gladly trading the complexity of negro for the brightness and freshness of a pepian loaded mole. After about four hours of active work time, Benjamino’s Mole is done. He rotates making the various types on Moles La Tia's menu, to allow for time and for the tastes to meld. Day two or three is better than day one for mole.

Alfonso, who manages many of this family’s enterprises, is committed along with the owner to continuing mole despite its enormous time investment and consequent expense. The family runs a bakery and catering company, as tamales and other more quickly made food, help subsidize this true labor of love. During my visit, he insisted on treating me to one of his recommended moles, El Pistachio, a pistachio mole paired with grilled salmon. It was memorable enough to haunt me whenever my thoughts turn to mole.

My good friend and food making co-explorer, Desiree Zamorano and I made mole together, once. After eight hours and a champagne break, we were finished in more ways than one.

And to conclude --Is the Back Story the Magic?

I realize now, that knowing more about how something is formed creates its own kind of alchemy. There is something heroic and authentic in those who pursue complexity and challenge. Dawn watches out for those of us, who choose to live near some of the world's most dynamic mountain ranges. Minh leads us gently and persistently to consider the most humble growing things around us as a potential unlocked treasure and to honor and support the high-quality food makers in our state. And every day, in a simple dining room thanks to chef Benjamino, we can enjoy one of the world’s most rarified of foods. One taste and you know: it is magic. Thanks to you all.

And for this week, instead of a recipe or two, I leave you with something equally delicious--a few moments from the revelatory film, In the Steps of Trisha Brown.

It may be that when we no longer know what to dowe have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to gowe have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

From The Real Work, a poem by Wendall Berry

leg‧a‧cy1 /ˈleɡəsi/ ●○○noun (plurallegacies) 1 something that happens or exists as a result of things that happened at an earlier time.

I have always visualized the conferring of legacy as handing over a metaphoric basket of values, stories or experiences from one generation to another. The basket is held for just a few moments by two sets of hands and then once again by one set, when both are assured that the transfer is complete. In some cases, there is a physical connection remaining, something that links one to the other.

In my case, legacy is revealed through my stepmother’s sewing machine, a Singer Featherweight, weighing no more than five pounds. It carries with it powerful memories of Margie, who as a young woman saved and waited and finally bought something that she used and cared for most of her life. When she became too old to care for it herself, I received it. Simply opening its case releases a scent of old leather, reveals dryness of threads and bobbins and a perfectly tuned machine—essence of Margie. It holds so much more than itself.

Amelia McDonald holds a pair of clippers in her hands, owned and used for years by her grandfather, who began his life in this part of the world as an itinerant citrus picker. The tool is surprisingly small--a little workhorse that survived and was passed down despite years of seasonal travel between Redlands and San Bernardino and beyond.

Amelia began her career as a trial lawyer, but after 20 years, she was done. The link to her grandfather’s past as a citrus worker materialized after his death.

“My family grew this farm. My grandfather’s family picked citrus from camp to camp without a penny to spare. He became a mechanic at Norton Air Force Base and was industrious and successful enough to buy his own home, which he left to me."

She and her husband were able to buy a small house on a 1.8 acre tract of land in Altadena from this inheritance. McDonald Farm has been in existence three short years, and is described as a work in progress. Amelia is well aware that her investment in citrus is driven by a sense of legacy rather than practicality, but she balances out this expense by growing four seasons of crops, producing eggs, and raising meat birds and goats.

For others, past experiences themselves can be a form of legacy. I see them as synaptic hooks—the small but sufficiently memorable experiences that accumulate to send us on a new path.

For Michael Martinez, the work he now finds himself immersed in began many years ago as a first time teacher in Florida. A student asked him how to grow a Cheeto, prompting him to develop a small school garden comprised of six raised beds. The garden became the focus of his school community and a source of pride for his students. They not only understood where food came from, but became active participants in its production through the cycle of composting to soil, seeds, plants, food and back to composting.

Michael Martinez

Returning to Los Angeles, Michael’s idea of “telling the story of food” to a larger community revolved around the cyclical creation of compost. He and a small “army” of bike riding friends picked up food scraps from restaurants and juice bars to create compost to give away or sell at local farmers’ markets. The income supported school gardens, the first being Merced Elementary in West Covina, where Michael was once a student. In the first few months, the “army” collected more than 30,000 scraps of food, but the model was unsustainable. “Burnout was inevitable and what we learned was that the riders providing this service and the people receiving compost were still disconnected.”

He framed a different question: “How do we empower and equip the community to take ownership of this material and not see it as waste or a disposable item, but as a resource?” Four years later, the idea has a name: LA Compost, Soil + People, and its big idea is played out through a model of community hubs, where composting is an additive and an essential part of the cycle of food development.

“Each hub reflects the community in which it is located, but they all serve the same purpose. They keep organics in the community and they create a shared space where individuals can come together to learn and ultimately be a part of something bigger than their individual selves.”

In the coming, year, LA Compost will open 10 more hubs.

“If your life's work can be accomplished in your lifetime, you're not thinking big enough.”

The idea of cost/benefit must include environmental sustainability. Amelia lives at her farm transporting her goods by electric golf cart to the Altadena farmer’s market less than one mile away. She teaches goat husbandry to 4H classes on site and conducts farm-to-table education and fundraising meals. A detailed ledger of expense and income is a necessary tool to understand and transform an “expensive hobby” into a business that is defined by the tenets of quality and ethical food production.

Growth as a requirement for successis no longer a given. L.A. Compost’s importance to others is additive. They do not manage the whole of anything; rather they add value to existing gardens. By ceding control, Michael can use resources more effectively and tailor what they do to each community hub. A new California state law, AB126, requires a phased in recycling of organic waste over the next few years. It is the stick to an idea that may be more fully embraced by the carrot of an engaged and growing community that understands the impact of turning the unwanted into something of value.

We control little, but through our choices of where we put our effort, we can inflect our idea of ourselves in small but crucial ways.

For both Amelia and Michael, a memorable experience—a student’s question, the gift of a family farm—set them on a new path, one that diverged from more conventional careers as attorney and teacher. And the particular endeavor they share—their participation in the emerging field of ethical food development—in turn bestows a legacy for future generations.

Charlotte McDonald standing on the compost pile. She is planting her own micro-garden of edible flowers and herbs and is a budding entomologist.

And finally, a quote from one of my dad’s favorite writers:

Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying.”

In the spirit of ethical food development, today’s food selections are purposely simple, constructed from a base ingredient that provides the beginning of many sources of nutrition and deliciousness, cream, masa and eggs.

The variations come from leftover bits and pieces you can easily find in your refrigerator. The cost savings from the creative use of your bits and pieces means more to invest in high quality, ethically produced ingredients.

I’ve learned that change is a process that happens over time. Sometimes it seems to lie dormant, then it emerges, then it seems to stop, then it seems that all of a sudden—there it is.

Sue Kujawa

In August of 2017, Sumi Chang sold Europane--a beloved Pasadena bakery and community center. Years ago, Sumi baked our wedding cake and delivered it personally. She welcomed a newly retired friend of mine as a volunteer baker into her kitchen. I saw her sweep the crumbs off the floor after a particularly rambunctious group of toddlers left; she treated her staff with unfailing kindness. With seeming effortlessness, she created a common table for us all. As the first to create beautifully crafted pastry and bread in this area, she paved the way for an exuberant and growing generation of local food makers. When telling friends about her decision, I heard many variations of what I would describe as the sound of loss: a deep intake of breath, then “oh no”, "why?" and "are you sure?”

Ships Coffee Shop in west Los Angeles, circa 1980

My 90-year-old mother speaks about the closing of Ship’s Coffee Shop as a form of psychic homelessness. For many years she went to this spot daily for oatmeal, coffee and toast. She has always been a socially adept loner--a person who needs interaction, but in small doses. The coffee shop hit all the buttons for her as it does for many of us.

I understand from her and from Sumi Chang and the Europane community that certain places own a greater part of our souls than we might realize.

This week’s post found its form through a series of conversations about legacy, primarily with food makers whose common thread is a deeply personal commitment to the art and craft of what they do. What do they consider to be their work’s legacy? What do they believed is non-negotiable and how do they plan to steward this legacy?

Top Line: Zenobia Ivory, Claire Peeps, Bottom Line: Sumi Chang, and Julie with long time chef, Marcelino Dominguez. Photos of Zenobia and Claire by Sally Krueger-Wyman.

Passion is Transferable:

Very few had planned to enter the work that has become so closely identified with them. The confluence of family responsibilities or chance evolved over time into a sense of creative opportunity. Mas left his father’s farm for UC Berkeley as quickly as he could, knowing from hard work in the summers what farm life meant. Zenobia, a nurse and nursing instructor, agreed, along with her son Michael, to take on her family’s 45 years of barbeque making when her sister-in-law’s health failed. The Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco put an end to Julie’s promised management position at a large hotel in San Francisco.

So, I went home, I was sitting at that table and my mom said, “help that person,” and you know what? I never went back. I had to make 75 salmon in filos.

Julie Campoy

As an exchange student in Japan, I became interested in my family, in the small village where my grandparents came from and loved the farm. And the irony, while there, I wanted to work with my family.

Mas Masumoto

Continuity

In a sector known for its poorly paid, transient workforce, the opposite is true for these businesses. Marcelino Dominguez, head chef at Julienne’s has been there for 30 years followed by many others of 20, 15 and 10 years. When selling her business, Sumi advocated first for her employees, describing their experience and skill as core to Europane’s ongoing legacy as much so as her recipes. She waited for buyers with enough business acumen to assure continuity in her staff's employment. Mas is moving from seasonal clusters of workers to a regular team of three to four people who can be guaranteed ongoing work with decent compensation.

All relate to their customer community with specificity and affection. During interviews with Sumi, Zenobia and Julie, we were stopped continuously by friendly regulars. These regulars have scoped out particular tables and days, are known by name and carry with them a sense of belonging that rivals some families.

This community supported us when we were in dire straits as a family. We grew up here, our roots are deep. It has supported us—we are very grateful. Never take anything for granted.

Julie Campoy

Julie with Norm, a Julienne regular.

Mas’ connections extend from his ongoing and personal relationships with chefs--most notably Alice Waters--to a growing legion of peach and nectarine adopters who commit to paying for the care of trees and then harvesting their bounty; and to a wider distribution to organic retail stores. Despite its relative smallness, the Masamoto farm is building a new model for food that is grown and shared.

An authentic path is rarely straight

The tenets of business--efficiency, cost savings, scalability--are challenged by the expressed values of passion, the process of “organic” growth and investment in employees. Peaches are picked when ripe; crops are grown without fungicide; a sauce is on slow simmer; the pastry is rolled by hand; growth is restrained by the requirements of quality.

I never had a business plan, I never mapped out that we were going to farm organically – partly that is the joy of it--you are following your interest.

David Mas Masumoto

You know what? It’s the sauce, the barbeque sauce. We actually make our own sauce back in the kitchen. We don’t put it in a pressure cooker; we are literally standing over the stove with our own ingredients for five or six hours.

Zenobia Ivory

I am most proud of the employees. It is a collective effort and key to our reputation for quality and consistency.

Julie Campoy

Work ethic first and foremost, doing what is right, no short cuts, a sense of the community.

A Tao of Letting Go

I often whisper to myself, “This farm is going to kill me.”

David Mas Masumoto

from Wisdom of the Last Farmer: Harvesting Legacies from the Land

I do think the organizations with sturdy legacy have a strong heart and culture. The people remaining still love and revere their former leadership.

Claire Peeps in speaking about her experience with nonprofit leadership transition

For many I spoke with, the entrance into their life’s passion was more kismet than intention, but the sense of stewarding legacy is deeply felt by all and is based on a number of considerations; How do I leave? Is there someone to carry the “basket”? Are the qualities and essence of my legacy worthwhile, transferable and therefore enduring?

Julie ensures the continuity of her mother’s legacy by recognizing and exemplifying values that read like the mission of a nonprofit. She is balancing the commitment to tradition with careful expansion and additions to the restaurant.

Julienne values on the wall of the office.

Mural of Bonnie B’s family members beginning third from the left: Clarence Henderson, Bonnie Henderson, Dr. Geller (stepfather to Bonnie and Clarence), Moms/Joy Henderson Geller (mother of Bonne and Clarence, grandmother of Michael). Photo by Sally Kreuger-Wyman.

Sumi Chang in her civilian clothes and her favorite tools of the trade from her Europane days.

Six months after the sale of Europane, I received a note from Sumi.

We are in Dalat Vietnam. What beautiful people. I am enjoying their smiles and hospitality. Dalat’s weather is cool and breezy. We are going to visit a flower farm and a coffee farm. We love this city.

Yes, I will give you any recipe you want. I would love to share one of my favorite recipes with my dearest customers. I appreciated so much their loyalty. Also, one of my favorite kitchen tools is a mini spatula.

P.S. I will be back in PASADENA on Feb. 6

xo, Sumi

Nikiko and Mas Masumoto at the Masumoto farm, photo courtesy of Valley Public Radio.

And Mas is now redefining succession as partnership and transition with his daughter Nikiko, also a graduate of UC Berkeley who returned to the farm after being given the choice to leave. They are involved in a delicate dance of relationships, father/daughter, partner/boss. The legacy of the Masumoto family lies in an understanding that continuity means welcoming change. Mas’ father took a chance on his son’s commitment to farming organically. Mas is welcoming Nikiko’s understanding of newer platforms for communication. Together, they are searching a balance between the physical demands of farming organically with a desire for a rational workload.

You must live life with the full knowledge that your actions will remain. We are creatures of consequence.

Zadie Smith

For this week’s post, I leave you with some tangible forms of legacy.

Sumi did make good on her promise and generously provided me with some of her earliest and most loved recipes: Pear Cake and Bread Pudding.

While growing up in sunny California I experienced the drama of the seasons by reading the literature of places in the world where the cold forced a quasi-hibernation. In my imagined world, all outdoor work ceased other than to feed those ever present horses by holding on with one hand to a rope tied securely between home and barn while carrying a pail of oats in the other. The world turned white; everything growing was buried, but inside the cottage all was snug and dry.

Left: Heidi with the Alm Uncle; Right: Van Gogh’s The Potato Eaters

I chose to imagine an industrious scene where handwork was the order of the season. My mind’s eye summoned Heidi rather than Van Gogh’s Potato Eaters. This was the season of sweater knitting, blade sharpening, net and clothes mending, and carving--activities that ranged from maintenance to creative expression and, as I believed, kept those snug inhabitants from going stir crazy. I love the rhythm of seasonally based tasks. But here in Southern California the structure of what we do and when we do it is at times self-imposed. There are many who maintain a practice of handwork even while the sun is shining and the coldest temperature is in the high 40’s.

hand·work

ˈhan(d)wərk/

noun

1. work done with the hands.

What a broad definition! We could easily identify a bundle of sub-categories, from fine art to bean counting. For this week’s post, I winnow down the description to those that straddle creative expressiveness and utility. And within the question of utility, a whole nesting doll set of questions around efficiency and ethics.

We Can Be Stewards

Frau Fiber, seamstress and artist

Carole Frances Lung was born in San Francisco and grew up in Huntington Beach of working class parents with little resources for the kind of clothing that would allow her to fit the teen culture requirements of a fairly affluent area. So Carole took to a sewing machine at the age of 11, making most of her clothes, and in doing so, entered a lifetime of investigating the meaning and value of labor, first through the “lived experience in the fashion industry sitting behind a sewing machine for hours and having my job off-shored in the early aughts,” and now, as director of a storefront studio/hive of activity, The Institute 4 Labor Generosity and Uniforms in Long Beach, its name a tribute to the International Women’s Garment Union—the ILGWU.

The Institute and her alternative identity, Frau Fiber, grew out of Carole’s experience hosting a store front shop in graduate school at the Bauhaus University of Art and Design in Weimer, Germany. Frau Fiber and Carole, despite distances of geography and culture, represent a similar commitment to independence from consumerism. “They” host the Sewing Rebellion, a monthly participatory mend and making event where an “army” of faux fraus are inducted into the service of handwork through a series of workshops.

Frau Fiber at her sewing table with the Wheel of Wages

Carole/Frau Fiber leads with humor but finishes with something more lasting. Her more recent ventures are a series of “tailor-made” pop-up shops, where customers bring garments for altering or repair. Displayed prominently in the shop is the Wheel of Wages. With a quick spin, a customer can determine the hourly payment for the work completed, ranging from Cambodia’s 45 cents to France’s $11.03.

When a friend and I met her at her recent pop-up hosted by Santa Monica’s Camera Obscura Art Lab as an alternative to Black Friday and Cyber Monday, Frau Fiber was tackling the seam of a well-worn costume owned by one of her customers. Taking out the old seam is a labor intensive process that assures a flatter finish. The time invested in this action was certainly more costly than the garment itself. But this was not the point. Behind her, a blackboard of customer orders indicated that this performance piece had transitioned into service for the community.

Mas Masumoto, farmer and writer

I met Mas more than 10 years ago at his farm in Del Rey, California. Even more than the grand sweep of the 80 acre farm, I remember his removing peaches from the branches of the trees. It was April, when the peaches were hard, greenish-yellow in color, and the size of golf balls. In other words, not ready to be picked. All of them looked the same to me, and it seemed wasteful to lose so many. He explained that too many peaches on the branch would stress the tree and the quality of the remaining fruit. A choice had to be made: fewer peaches in order to grow exquisitely delicious fruit.

This story leads me to consider even more metaphoric and endless possibilities in Mas’ fertile mind and farm. He has taken the lessons learned from his and his family’s decision to save their fussy, hard to grow heirloom peach trees as a form of reverse engineering.

“What would it mean if I maintained these trees? What would I need to do?” The answers have been compelling and meaningful enough that Mas and Marcy’s daughter Nikiko has returned to the farm from Berkeley with a degree in Women and Gender Studies. The context of the family farm holds enormous possibilities to test her values. “If she wanted to be the most radical, she would come back to one of the most conservative, most patriarchal of cultures and start to carve out a role for herself as revolutionary.”

One such action is the farm’s Adopt-a-Tree program. It, too, began as a way to finance the much more expensive heirloom peach cultivation and harvesting and has bloomed (sorry) into a powerful method for bridging the gap between consumer and farmer. “They (the adopters) have to decide, is this the time to pick this peach? It is no longer a commodity exchange. One tree can yield 300 to 400 lbs. of fruit. And it opens the door to the whole relationship and network around food, how food is grown and shared.”

Tynesha Daniels, student and emerging poet

A final example of stewardship was engendered by a young student’s deep immersion with nature through the Children Investigate the Environment program. As I hike through Eaton and Las Flores Canyons, I am convinced I see former participants, now adults, continuing to enter nature with confidence and joy.

Never mistake motion for action.

Ernest Hemingway

And so, there is an emerging meaning of choice in how we conduct our lives. I began with the question of handwork, with its implicit and very real inefficiencies, and end with a sense that there are more reasons to do what we do than efficiency and financial gain. What does it mean to do something against the grain? What is the risk both personal and practical? There are numerous and growing examples of individuals who “reverse engineer” around values instead of finances–and in doing so understand the need to develop a larger army of stewards, rather than anonymous consumers.

For the holiday season, I promise not to lecture and hector (even though the impulse is mighty). As always, I leave you with alternative gifts for now and for the upcoming seasons of your life.

Many years ago, the artist Tim Hawkinson occupiedthe entire gallery space at Pasadena’s Armory Center for the Arts, including the little used storage closet in the rear of the gallery. He brushed latex onto its lozenge-shaped black interior and inflated a giant balloon in the main gallery space, where it wheezed to its fullness via a homely, visible pump and then deflated slightly. Hawkinson’s work has always been the apex of transparency, as it illuminates the actual gears and levers of how something works. And yet his work remains magical, maybe because we are privy to something never seen or thought of before.

He even tried his hand at visualizing time through a series of wheels, the first turning maniacally on a tiny gear train at 1400 rpm, the last on a gear train so large that its rotation would not be completed within our lifetimes – 100 years or so. The wheels turning at different speeds, fast to imperceptibly slow, reminded me that a great deal of activity or progress is not visible. There is a form of hidden momentum in slow moving change that hovers somewhere in the background. The thought often calmed me when I felt overwhelmed by the relentless demands of running a non-profit.

As we enter the holiday season, I have noticed two schools of coping as the wheel of requirements begin to spin merrily and madly. The first is to soldier on, the most competent of us having organized our gift purchases, e-cards, food ideas and party planning well before we are safely out of the extended heat spell called Summer/Early Fall. The other school withdraws, going out of town, eating take out Chinese, ignoring the whole thing altogether. I find this latter group quite self-disciplined, as the reminders of our next big seasonal milestone are everywhere.

Today’s post is an attempt to moderate between a seasonal speed that cannot be sustained (or at least enjoyed) and complete stasis. The recipes are all ones that require very little “active time.” Rather, they simmer, roast, pickle or separate into curds and whey while you are otherwise occupied and sometimes happily tucked in, dreaming.

What an amazing site this is for data geeks like me! It identifies how we as Americans spend our time. From what I can see of the 2016 data, we spend a good deal of time on sleeping/personal care and working. Coming up a distant third is recreation, with screen time our most consistent recreational pal.

Household Activities in 2016

"Watching TV was the leisure activity that occupied the most time (2.7 hours per day), accounting for just over half of leisure time, on average, for those ages 15 and over. The amount of time people spent watching TV varied by age. Those ages 15 to 44 spent the least amount of time watching TV, averaging around 2.0 hours per day, and those ages 65 and over spent the most time watching TV, averaging over 4.0 hours per day." Bureau of Labor Statistics

While I admire precision in classifications, I disagree with the notion that housekeeping (which includes cooking) should remain a separate category from those of self-care or recreation. I make my case below:

A “Two-Fer” is so Much More Fulfilling than Multi-Tasking

“The true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life.”

William Morris

Going regularly to your local Farmers Market expands the idea of required task into recreation and self-care. If in a slo-mo frame of mind, I allow all manner of conversations and connection. There is a sense of a commons engendered by consistency of relationships between buyer and seller, neighbors and friends, and even the vaguely familiar faces of the regulars.

16th century Spanish market.

For Alex, the four-year old grandson and cook in training, there is an emerging respect for food. He is learning to handle more fragile produce carefully, and asks before he touches.

There is the sense that despite slightly higher costs, you are actively supporting local farmers and ethical farming practices, and sustaining a variety of food types and sources. (And as the food is fresher, it lasts longer and less is wasted.)

As the grower is often there, you can find out what an unknown product is for. They are happy to teach.

Alex then 3 at the Pasadena Saturday Farmers Market, enjoying the entertainment.

Anna Thomas and Meanwhile Cooking

In her twenties, Anna Thomas had the hubris to write a cookbook, The Vegetarian Epicure, while in film school at UCLA. Her dual life, one of screenwriter and faculty member at the American Film Institute, the other as prolific cookbook writer is proof of her prodigious energy and, for the rest of us mortals, the human necessity to move with some regularity from head to hand work.

“…a friend of mine calls this ’meanwhile cooking.’ Get up and go to your kitchen, and cut a few vegetables to put into the pot and do whatever, to start it cooking. Meanwhile, as it is simmering, you can answer a few emails — and you feel refreshed. You are only doing one thing at a time, but you vary your routine. You are not looking at a screen. You are doing something tactile and pleasant and it brings you back to yourself. It is a great kind of experience to work into your life.”

Anna Thomas

Anna Thomas beginning her Fuyu Persimmon Salsa in my kitchen. (The persimmons were “foraged” from her neighbor’s tree.)

Try Fail Succeed

“If you grow up with cooking, it is like a language. It is immersion. It is part of the texture of your life.”

Anna Thomas

Surprisingly, using “convenience” foods saves only a negligible amount of time when compared to a meal cooked from scratch. The barrier to home cooking, it seems, has more to do with a lack of confidence leading to a rigid adherence to a recipe rather than a fluency that comes from understanding interchangeable flavors and basic techniques.

Instead of thinking of recipes as open ended guides, we shackle ourselves to lists of ingredients requiring yet another dash to the store. Try looking in your refrigerator or pantry for a flavor cousin for inspiration: chard for spinach, shallot for onion, carrots for parsnips, Parmesan for Manchego.

You will waste less food and begin your own recipes, made from a bit of confidence and what you have on hand. At times, the food will be less than sterling. So be it. As we all know, meals are ephemeral at their best or worst.

Between last week and this, we have finally entered Pasadena’s fall equinox, decidedly later than the actual date of September 22nd. The welcome dip in temperature by more than 30 degrees, the dampness turning to drizzle and then to rain, the change in light from blinding to oblique, all of which culminates in Halloween.

I contend that October 31st should be our new equinox—a later date with a nod to our new normal. Hotter, longer summers and a feeling of hosanna when the air turns dewy.

We have been fooled before, a cool day here and there, only to be disappointed by another week of heat-stroke inducing temperatures. But now we are in it for the long haul and my favorite time of year, fall.

In Japan, a country known for a depth of observation and celebration of the physical world, there are 72 micro-seasons -- Shichijuni-kou 七十二候 -- aligned to earlier customs and patterns that fit neatly into 24 sub-sections. These 72 are so much more fulsome than our miserly four seasons, dependent more upon haiku-like observations of phenomena than an inflexible calendar date.

And there is a slower, almost imperceptible slide into each next stage.These delineations inaugurating the Fall equinox and ending with the beginning of Winter are felt as well as visualized:

Thunder ceases

Insects hole up underground

Wild geese return

Crickets chirp around the door

Light rains sometimes fall

Maple leaves and ivy turn yellow

I searched and found my mother’s worn and well used book of Japanese Haiku, containing poems that track in four short lines of verse and metered syllables the same subtle journey of the year’s unfolding.

Bold brash Autumn blast

blundered into

the bamboos…

Then the grove fell still

Basho

November sunrise…

Uncertain the storks

still stand…

Bare sticks in water

Kakei

Inspired by this poetic sense filled calendar, I have created my own micro-seasons for summer’s last gasp and the relief of fall. Food, as usual, takes a central role.

The Urban Forager’s Suggested Micro-Seasons, with apologies to the elegance of the Haiku form.

Another delight in dividing our year into 72 micro seasons is the explicit reminder to stop and notice as a form of open-ended codifying of experience. If there are 72 moments to collectively remark upon, my guess is that some of them are quite intimate in scope.

A case in point was a recent walk post-Halloween to record my neighborhood’s response to this celebration of night, identity change and wholesale gorging. Instead of documenting squashed pumpkins and faux grave yards, I participated in a completely satisfying micro-drama unfolding as three neighbors and I helped reunite Molly, the dog, with her owner. One woman held the goofball on a leash; the other posted a notice on our neighborhood blog and called animal control. I intercepted a worried looking woman walk/running down the street by yelling out, “Is that your dog?” just as animal control arrived.

And so, I end with one last micro-season notation that has resonance for the entire year without the brevity of the Haiku form.

“Lowly, unpurposeful and random as they appear, sidewalk contacts are the small change from which a city’s wealth of public life must grow.”

Jane Jacobs, Tireless activist and advocate for the value of urban life.